


against the cold

by FunAndWhimsy



Series: into the dawn [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, First Time, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slow Build, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunAndWhimsy/pseuds/FunAndWhimsy
Summary: At the moment of the Black Eagles Strike Force's greatest triumph, tragedy strikes, and Edelgard falls. In the wake of her death, everything happens so quickly Bernadetta finds herself ensconced in the Imperial Palace, engaged to the newly-appointed Emperor, and navigating all the complications of a brand new war against shadowy targets in the time it takes to blink. Between Hubert and Ferdinand's bickering, her own doubts about her place in this new empire, and the threat of Those Who Slither In The Dark, she must somehow find the strength to push forward, and to reach for what she wants when the opportunity presents itself.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Bernadetta von Varley, Ferdinand von Aegir/Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: into the dawn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625716
Comments: 13
Kudos: 102





	against the cold

Ferdinand doesn't look exhausted so much as he looks like a wilted flower, kept too long from the sun and rain. Even the buoyant waves of his hair are drooping, limp with the evidence of too little time to wash. The shadows under his eyes and the hint of gauntness to his cheeks age him as if a decade has gone by in the months since Edelgard fell, and though he is too proud to let his shoulders slump it seems to take him more effort to stand up straight by the minute. This isn't what he signed on for, this isn't what any of them signed on for. 

Worn as he is, his eyes still light up when he sees Bernadetta, and by the time he’s crossed the room to greet her there is already some color back in his cheeks, some life to him. It is terrifying, to have this kind of power over a person, but exhilarating, too, more so because it's _Ferdinand_ and it had never once occurred to Bernie she might be able to offer this bottomless wellspring of energy and enthusiasm some of her own limited reserve.

Ferdinand makes short work of the fussiest of his garments so he can join her on the divan, and she sets aside her knitting so there's room to rest his head in her lap. He's so much bigger than she is it's difficult to hold him the way he so often needs to be held, but this is a fine compromise. Bernadetta pets his hair and watches him relax by inches, slowly letting the tension of too many too long days leave him.

"Have you eaten?"

"I have no appetite," he says, a little muffled in the fabric of her nightdress. 

"You'll make yourself sick."

"I'll do better tomorrow," he says, and presses a kiss to her knee. He won't, but he'll try, and she supposes she can't ask for much more than that. Maybe Hubert can find him some time to take a lunch with her tomorrow, and she can coax him into it - but then, the last thing she wants to do, other than put more pressure on Ferdinand, is put any more pressure on Hubert. 

"I could have a bath drawn."

"That sounds nice, but I would fall asleep and drown."

"I wouldn't let you."

"I know, my love" Ferdinand kisses her knee again, then turns to look up at her with a soft, gentle smile that makes her feel a little bit like she's the one drowning in a warm bathtub, in the best way. "Could I just lie here with you for a bit?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry to - "

"No," he says, and turns to lie on his back so he can look up at her more easily. "Thank you. I am not quite sure what I would do without you to worry about me."

"If I didn't have you to worry about," Bernadetta says, "I think I'd just spend all my time crying."

"Perhaps," he says. "Or you would be with our friends, striking fear into the hearts of our enemies."

Bernadetta just hums and pats his cheek idly; he might be right, but this far removed from the war it's easier to forget the person she was when fighting felt like the only right choice. Ferdinand himself would be out there, of course, but if they lose him the question of who takes the throne becomes much too complicated to answer, and in that complication lies chaos, and in chaos lies the undoing of everything they did under Edelgard's command. So Ferdinand is here, because they need him safe, and though Hubert is managing their intelligence efforts and his spy network he is also here, because Ferdinand needs him. And Bernadetta is here because Ferdinand asked her to be, because no one has ever really _needed_ Bernadetta and yet he says he does.

"I managed to take a walk through the royal gardens today, on my way from one pressing matter to another."

"Oh, how are they? I haven't had time myself, and the few times I came here with my father I was too busy keeping my head down to look much."

"A bit of a mess, honestly," he says. "The Hresvelgs had no taste, and they are overgrown on top of that. There’s so much potential, though; I simply cannot wait to see what you make of them when you have the chance."

Bernadetta laughs and runs her fingers through the mess of his hair, untangling as gently as she can as she goes. "I doubt I’ll ever have the time."

"It does seem that way." He lets his eyes slip closed and sighs, so quietly she nearly misses it, relaxes into her touch like there's magic in her fingers. "But the war will end someday. Soon, hopefully."

"Oh, I know. But do you intend to keep me around just to be your gardener?"

Ferdinand opens one eye. "What do you mean?"

"I - oh, I just - I mean, once the war is over you won't - aren't I just here to - "

"You're here for many reasons," he says. "I know we were trying to avoid bad luck by not - surely I've made my feelings and intentions towards you clear."

His shoulders, his whole body, have gone tight again, so tense she fears he might snap in two, and both eyes are open now, his brow furrowed in concern. Oh, she shouldn't have said anything, now she's upset him when he doesn't have any room for any more upset. And she's done so well keeping her mouth shut about her own worries.

"You have, you have! But that was before all of this."

"So?"

"Doesn't that change everything? You're going to be _Emperor_ , Ferdinand, and I certainly can't - there are ten entire people in the whole world, maybe, I can speak to without panicking, and I would have to - and you wouldn't be able to marry me anyway. You'll need to - it'll have to be someone symbolic, or to form an alliance, or make a deal, I'm sure Hubert already has twenty spouses lined up."

"You know better than anyone how I feel about arranged marriages," he says, with a huff. "And Hubert would never do that to you."

"I wouldn't try to predict what Hubert will do when he's grieving and feels her entire legacy is in the balance," Bernadetta says. "It wouldn't be about me, it would be about the empire."

Ferdinand sighs, and takes her hand in both of his, squeezing a little. 

"I know this is not what you want, Bernie. And if you cannot - if you need to - when you feel you need to leave, I want you to know I will not insist you stay. And if it will be easier for you if there is an arrangement, if you would prefer it does not have to be your choice, I understand."

"No," she says, and squeezes his hands back, tightly, so her nails dig in, so the skin goes white under her grip. "I don't - that's not - "

"We do not have to talk about it now," he says, and sits up a little to kiss her hand even though she must be hurting him. "I did not intend to upset you. If you would - I would like a bath very much, I think, if that is still on offer."

"Of course," Bernadetta says. She doesn't want - she wants to push, to have the fight now because it's killing her to know it's coming, and she wants to cry for the loss of this one good and perfect thing she's ever had, and she wants to yell at him for not pausing for even a second to think about it when Hubert thrust this burden upon him. But if they fight now it will be over, and if she cries he'll comfort her and he can barely handle his own worries, and if he had paused he wouldn't be Ferdinand, so she just smiles, and slips out from underneath him, and goes to see about getting some hot water even at this late hour.

-

Hubert looks just as exhausted as Ferdinand, and probably more unwashed, but he's always worked too hard and it's somewhat less jarring on him. Still, Bernadetta knows him well enough to see the signs this is more than just his usual late nights, to see the grief bearing down on his shoulders and etched in the weary lines of his face. She doesn't know what to say to him, no one really does, but if nothing else she's _here_ and maybe not being entirely alone in the Imperial Palace with Edelgard's replacement is doing him some good. She hopes it is, anyway.

The room is so chilly the skin on Bernadetta's arms draws into goosebumps, the breeze ruffling the papers stacked high on Hubert's desk. She's about to offer to close the windows when a bird flies in through one, parchment tied to its leg. Of course he wouldn't be bothering to go back and forth to the rookery at a time like this.

"Good news, or bad?" she asks, when Hubert has untied the message and had a moment to look it over. If he knew she was here he hasn't acknowledged it, but if she startled him it doesn't show.

"I'm not sure," he says. "A few too many moving pieces, right now. I should know more by the end of the day; I'll call a meeting when I do."

Tactics aren't Bernadetta's strong suit, but Hubert includes her in every war meeting, and both he and Ferdinand keep asking her opinion no matter how little she knows. It's a way to keep an eye on things, at least; she's too anxious to look at casualty reports on her own.

"If you're too busy, I can come back."

"I'm always busy," Hubert says, in a tone that makes Bernadetta wonder what he'd do if she tried to bully him into bed like she does with Ferdinand. Probably at best he’d do exactly what Ferdinand does and lie down long enough to appease her just so he can bolt back to work at the first opportunity. "What do you need?"

"It's not - I'm not - it isn't urgent."

"Then it's a welcome break from everything that is," he says. He smiles at her - weak, but genuine, crinkling his eyes just a little at the corners the way she never noticed when his smile used to terrify her - and reaches for the carafe on his desk to pour her a cup of coffee. Most people, upon seeing Hubert reach into a desk drawer, retrieve a mysterious powder, and add it to their drink, would be rightly suspicious, but Bernadetta knows better. When she takes a sip, her coffee is perfectly sweet, and Hubert doesn't take sugar in his so that must be in his desk just for her. Because Hubert, however troubled he is, cares about her, and her well-being, even when she's just being silly Bernadetta.

"Do you have some kind of plan for me?"

"Other than keep Ferdinand from losing his mind and running off to the battlefield, and me from doing the same, and give us counsel, as you have been?"

"I mean after that."

"Hm." Hubert looks at her, then, all his focus on her for the first time since she came in, looks at her so long Bernadetta is about to ask him what's wrong when he finally looks away and reaches into another drawer. He hands her a black folder containing a couple maps of the palace with notes and diagrams in his messy scrawl, some recipes she doesn't recognize, and a page of notes she can't parse, abbreviations with lengths of time next to them.

"I don't have any reason to believe Those Who Slither have anyone on the inside, or that there are currently agents attempting to infiltrate the palace, and I find more often than not planning for the worst upsets people when I need them focused. But of course you would - there is no strict plan in place yet, but I would welcome your thoughts on the preliminaries."

Bernadetta looks more closely; one map is labeled with escape routes, times and drawbacks, another marked with places hidden combatants could be posted to snipe the invaders, the third with locations that are too valuable to be taken and would need to be set ablaze or blocked off. The recipes are poisons, she recognizes a few ingredients, and the times - ah, the abbreviations correspond with the recipes, so that must be time to take effect. For Those Who Slither, or for the palace occupants? 

Knowing Hubert, probably both.

"Oh, I didn't - this isn't what I meant. I can still look them over for you, though! I I don't know how much help I'll be, but - " 

"You're at least as good as I am at anticipating the worst, which is what I need most here,” he says. "But if not this, what plan are you looking for, exactly?"

"After this, when - it's going to - there's - you think of everything," Bernadetta says. "And you know as well as I do I'm not cut out for all of this, for the - the throne, and the meetings, and the parties, and the - all the _people_ , all the time. That there are better - smarter - I don't know what to do with myself, when Ferdinand and I can't - when it's not - I thought you might know. And if I know I won't be too scared to - to do the right thing, when I have to."

"The right thing as in leaving Ferdinand?"

"Not when he still needs me, of course!" Bernadetta says, moving so quickly to correct him she splashes a little coffee onto her skirt.

"You expect there will come a time when he won't?" Hubert raises his eyebrow.

Bernadetta frowns and takes a sip of her coffee so she can look away. She assumed - hoped - he'd understand right away, that someone as pragmatic as Hubert would recognize that if marrying Ferdinand requires more than Bernadetta can handle, then a marriage is impossible, and if that's impossible then some other future will have to take its place. 

"He's going to need an Empress, eventually, not...me."

Hubert frowns at her, pushes his chair away from the desk, stands up and walks to the window. Bernadetta's heart is speeding up, her mind flipping through the endless possibilities of what she's done wrong, how she's upset him, what he's going to do as a result. A deep breath, a sip of coffee, a deep breath - it would probably be easier for Hubert not to deal with this now, not to have to wonder if she's really in it, to worry about what she might do, until he has the time to focus on Ferdinand's love life to his satisfaction. And he does this, he pauses and he thinks about things when she brings them to him, it doesn't mean he's trying to keep himself from flying into a rage or calculating the odds she'll die if he throws her out the window now.

"Ferdinand is the best option to take the throne," he says, still facing out the open window. "But he's not the only option. Linhardt has the political background necessary to make his case, and he'd allow me to do as I please as long as he can study and rest as he wants. Raising up the warrior son of the Minister of Military Affairs would send a very specific message about our remaining strength after so long at war, and Caspar would be similarly willing to take my counsel in exchange for a measure of freedom from royal duty. Dorothea, even, would meet incredible resistance but make the best possible case for dismantling the nobility, and would probably be at least as interesting a challenge for me as Ferdinand. I could even elevate a noble from Faerghus or the Alliance, in the interest of unity."

"But?"

"I'm not going to lie to you and pretend it was the deciding factor, or that I even gave it much thought at all in the moment. But I was - am - aware that while Ferdinand thinks he is at his best when he is being challenged, he is at his _actual_ best with someone who takes a less antagonistic approach to guiding him, and gives him space to be, well, gentle. I knew the two of you would marry after the war, and so I knew that crowning him would mean crowning you as well. It was a significant point in his favor."

"I - oh." Bernadetta, like always, doesn't have any idea what to say. There's so much she _could_ , but - it'd be stupid to point out she and Ferdinand never talked about their future, terrified of making plans only to lose each other, so how could Hubert be so sure they'd marry, because he's Hubert and he always knows everything first. Or to argue about Ferdinand's merits, because Hubert already knows them all, or even more absurdly to argue the others' merits, because whether or not Hubert chose correctly, there's nothing anyone can do about it now. Or to thank him for the compliment, like the well-trained good noble daughter part of her wants to, because it's too big for that and also because it _terrifies_ her, far more than thinking she's here by a series of coincidences, that anyone might think so highly of her.

While her tongue is tied Hubert turns from the window; his face - his entire posture - softens when he sees her, so she must look as distressed as she feels. It's not entirely unlike the change in Ferdinand when he looks at her, but that's not - she can only think about so much at once. He crosses the room in a few quick strides and kneels in front of her chair, resting his hands on the arms and somehow managing both to invade her space and respect it.

"I will protect you, Bernadetta," he says, with a fervor he hasn't shown since the day Edelgard fell. "Whether it's from assassins, or soldiers on the battlefield, or parties you don't want to attend. I will keep you safe and I will see you happy, the both of you, if you trust me."

There is an odd, small voice - so small she barely recognizes it as the screaming alarm that used to sound near-constantly in her Garreg Mach days - in the back of Bernadetta's head insisting she should be frightened right now, of Hubert and his intensity and his promises. But she has come so far, and she knows who she has to thank, and she knows who in this room, in this palace, is most likely to be correct about how much farther she can go.

"I do," she says, barely more than a whisper, and she is rewarded with another smile, exhausted and half-crazed and crinkling in the corners of his eyes.

-

For a moment, Bernadetta half-expects Hubert to wrap Ferdinand up in a hug from behind before she realizes he's just leaning over Ferdinand so they can read the same report. His long arms barely make up for how much broader Ferdinand's shoulders are, but he's managing to point at something and actually touch the stack of papers on the desk even if it means nearly suffocating himself in Ferdinand's wild mane of hair. 

(At least Ferdinand's washed it recently so if Hubert does suffocate he'll be smelling something pleasant as he goes.)

There is something to the way they look like this that makes Bernadetta nearly turn around to go get her paints; the contrast of Hubert all spindly shadow wrapped around the edges of Ferdinand's glow, of course, but something more than that. The little slump to Ferdinand's shoulders, the lines of him tilting back ever so slightly like a flower that just can't help but reach for the sun, the way Hubert turns, just a little, into the brush of Ferdinand’s hair against his cheek, the smiles teasing at the corners of their lips even as they argue some point or another. 

Something that makes Bernadetta's stomach flip in a way she's learned to recognize, a new need forming in the back of her mind and hot on its heels a new fear that she'll never have it, that she wouldn't deserve it if she did. But something she recognizes, too, in Ferdinand's eyes that keep drifting to Hubert's thin lips as he speaks, in the soft ease of his smile so at odds with everything happening around them. If she leaves, he'll be alright, as long as he has Hubert. 

But if she leaves she won't get to see what this becomes - or be a part of it. The thought is, all at once, too big and too much to bear, crushing her chest so for a moment she loses her breath. Bernadetta sighs, used enough to a sudden anxiety attaching itself to an arbitrary thought that she shakes the worst of it it off fairly easily, and steps into the room.

"I brought lunch," she says, lifting the tray a little, and can't quite ignore that when they turn to look at her their so different faces are nearly identical in their delight.

-

The table in the war room is covered end to end with a large map, somewhat out of date and entirely unrelated to the events unfolding in figures and pins atop it. Bernadetta isn't sure she believes Hubert when he claims even he doesn't know exactly where things are taking place, as it's too dangerous to communicate that specifically no matter how heavily coded the messages, but it's better she and Ferdinand not know anyway so it doesn't really matter. The front line is correctly placed, but the front line is little more than a decoy itself. A decoy that's a little too close for comfort, but at least Bernadetta knows she can handle herself in battle if it comes down to it. She's proven that a thousand times by now.

Ferdinand is pushing figures around somewhere near Fódlan's Locket, a few minor agents of Those Who Slither they haven't sent anyone after yet. There are a few Alliance nobles lending their troops to the cause, which means these particular agents probably aren't anywhere near the Locket or they wouldn't have spent the last hour arguing about who could be spared to deal with them.

"At the rate we're going, Arundel likely won't be able to hold us off for more than another moon, and when he needs to change strategy he will almost certainly - "

"Another moon?" Ferdinand asks. "I thought we nearly had him on the run last moon."

"It's not an exact science," Hubert says. "His forces have proven somewhat more resilient than we expected, based on initial information. But I have confirmed he is low on - "

"And if his forces continue to surprise ours with their resilience?"

"Then it will take somewhat longer. As I was _saying_ , though, he is low on reinforcements and will need to begin recruiting or conscripting soon, which means troops who are less skilled and significantly less loyal to him."

"Hm," Ferdinand says, and leans over the table. "Are we still certain the frontal assault is the wisest course?"

" _We_ are, yes," Hubert says. "Distracting Arundel has made it possible to eliminate as many of their agents as we have without his interference. Forcing him into a drawn-out battle will deprive him of people and resources, and without those he is more likely to make a mistake we can capitalize on, or seek help from elsewhere and give us a trail to follow. That it is taking longer to get him there than we hoped is unfortunate, but it hasn't changed the core facts."

"We put Fódlan through a lot, these last five years," Ferdinand says. "Civilians dead, fields burned, governments destroyed. Many roads are impassable thanks to wreckage or bandits, making it difficult for citizens to create their own supply lines. Counties are without leadership because we killed or conscripted their nobles, so no one is clearing those roads or providing protection for those able to grow food and willing to transport it. These are the sorts of things an Emperor should fix, and that an Emperor wishing to unite a troubled continent and prove his goodwill would fix with incredible haste. And yet I sit here, watching these problems pile up, while throwing all my energy behind a new war against enemies most of the people starving do not even know exist." 

"You swore you were committed to seeing Edelgard's vision through, and Edelgard - 

Ferdinand slams his fist on the table, startling Bernadetta so she jumps a little. These arguments escalate more and more quickly every time. "Do _not_ use that against me, Hubert, I’m tired of it. I've read her writings on the subject; she knew taking them out would be a matter of years, not weeks, that it would be a hunt, not a war, and she certainly had no intention of letting the survivors of her revolution starve in the meantime."

"Edelgard was more patient than I."

"Impatient, Hubert, or foolhardy?"

Hubert narrows his eyes at Ferdinand, the energy in the room shifting from tense to something even sharper. 

"Is something not to your liking, my Lord?" he asks, the title becoming a cruel epithet in his tone. 

"I am to rule over a united Fódlan, am I not? The longer we are at war with what appears to be our own people, the less capable I look of maintaining any unity. Every moment we have Faerghan nobles - and their armies - fighting on our behalf is a moment we are failing to rebuild there, and thus failing to convince the Kingdom's citizens we'll be anything but disastrous for them. And if they turn, do you expect the Alliance will honor their former leaders wishes for long? You're doing a far better job sabotaging me than you are fighting this war."

This is hardly the first time a war meeting has led to this, and further, to Ferdinand and Hubert at opposite ends of the table facing each other down like opposing armies. Bernadetta doesn't hate it any less for being used to it, isn't any better at being in a room with men who are raising their voices (and might, at any moment, remember she's there and a much more effective target for their anger), but at least she gets better at dealing with it each time.

"Do we have anyone on the inside among Arundel's forces?" Bernadetta asks; she's too quiet the first time, has to repeat herself before they look her way.

"He's too careful," Hubert says. "The risk far outmatches the reward."

"But he isn't leading the army in battle anymore," she says. “Another commander might - “

"Of course he’s leading them," Hubert says, frowning at her. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

"Fleche's latest report says she hasn't seen his face in almost a fortnight." Bernadetta leans over the table and pushes a sheet of crumpled paper in Hubert's direction. "That she's worried he's up to something because of it?"

Hubert snatches the page and reads it over quickly, eyes scanning the page a second time, a third, before he drops it and begins shuffling through his other papers. "I missed that."

"You _missed_ something?" Ferdinand asks, a little too loud, a little too angry. "The impeccable Minister von Vestra, the _real_ power behind the throne, and you can not keep track of your own reports?"

"Ferdinand," Bernadetta says, a warning, but his pride has been wounded and once that's done there's really nothing for it but to let him go. If it were safe for him to roam the grounds, if there were someone to spar with, or if they could send him off on a ride for an hour or two - but they've all been cooped up here too long. 

"I would point out you also missed this particular detail," Hubert says. "So perhaps you shouldn't - "

"You swore to me you could handle this," Ferdinand says. "You gave your _word_ it would not be a problem if I left the battle and allowed you to sequester me here. I know you only say what you need to get the results you want, Hubert, but I did not think you would risk the entire continent for it. We are losing this war because you can not even manage - "

"Enough!" Hubert bangs his fist on the table, deploying some of his magic so the entire thing shakes and the figures representing the various battles in play go flying. In the time it takes Bernadetta to duck away and turn back, Ferdinand has risen to his feet, sword drawn, and Hubert's clenched fist is crackling ominously with dark energy. It would almost be worth it to let them fight it out, if either one of them had even a little self-control when angry. There's a part of Bernadetta that would rather hide under the table than do anything at all with the two of them ready to snap, but it is a part that has much less control over the rest of her than it used to.

"Yes," she says, and stands up herself. "Enough. Both of you."

Ferdinand relents first, glaring at Hubert for a moment longer before sighing and running his hands through his hair.

"I have work to do," he says, as if he's the only one, as if this isn't work, and leaves without another look at either of them.

As soon as he's out of sight Hubert collapses into his chair like a marionette whose strings have been cut, like every hour of missed sleep from the past few moons is catching up with him all at once. He looks _miserable_. 

"It's an easy enough mistake," she says; for a long time she doesn't think he's heard her, because he doesn't move. The silence grows and thickens between them, solidifying into something that's going to suffocate them both, leave them trapped in their chairs, if she gives it a chance. It's not until she rises and collects her papers he finally looks at her.

"I'm sorry," he says, and then he's up and out of the room with all his belongings in the time it takes her to blink. 

-

Ferdinand is never rough, exactly, but he's always passionate, and he's strong, and he's so _big_ compared to her that sometimes his enthusiasm comes right up to the line. Tonight is one of those nights, when he coaxes her into his lap for fear of hurting her if he doesn't put her in control, then grips her hips tight enough to bruise and bounces her in his lap at his own pace anyway. Bernadetta certainly isn't _complaining_ ; to go so much of her life without feeling needed, wanted, and then to have Ferdinand prove just how desperately he desires her in the push of his hips and strength of his hold is so heady it makes her dizzy with it. And he's beautiful when he spills inside her, crying his pleasure to the empty room and near glowing with the joy of it, with how good she - she, who could barely give him the gift of polite conversation once upon a time - makes him feel.

Bernadetta is still shaking from her own release, the third tonight, when she falls to Ferdinand's side, when he gathers her in his arms and pulls her in close to kiss the top of her head and let her rest against his chest. She used to think of her sensitivity, of her tendency to shiver when overwhelmed, as nothing but her body confirming how pathetic she is, but when it's Ferdinand using those things to his advantage, when it's only Ferdinand who can set her off, she's growing to appreciate it more and more.

"You," Ferdinand says, and laughs, always so _giddy_ afterwards. She nearly walked right out of his room the first time, when she clumsily brought him off with her mouth and all he could do was laugh. "You are - "

A knock on the door interrupts him, and another, more and more insistent, louder and louder. Bernadetta pouts and makes a halfhearted attempt to hold him in place but he slips away and pulls on his dressing gown. She wouldn't be able to hold him in place even if she really meant it, anyway.

"It's Hubert," he says, unnecessary; no one else would disturb them this late. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair that does nothing to make it look less tousled. "I was hoping to avoid him until the morning, at least."

"When you were of course going to be the first to apologize."

"Of course." He leans down to kiss her while the knocking gets ever louder. Magically enhanced, most likely; Hubert will rouse the whole palace if he has to. Ferdinand rubs his nose against hers before he pulls away, unbearably sweet, and then he disappears through the bedroom door and the banging finally comes to a blessed end.

That'll be the rest of the night, then. Hubert wouldn't have come unless he had some plan to make up for his mistake, and Ferdinand won't simply listen to it and come back to bed. They'll be up all night and into the morning going over it together, refining it, setting things in motion, on the same page again. If Bernadetta's lucky - or if they're smart - she'll wake in Ferdinand's arms to find they did remember they have human bodies that need sleep, but most likely she'll have to shoo them to bed after she wakes up alone.

Bernadetta sighs, lets her hand slip down to poke at the sore spots on her hip that will be bruises by morning. Ferdinand is so cuddly she never has to do this, has to lie here alone while the glow fades and the worst parts of her brain turn back on one by one. It's important, apparently, that they let her know Ferdinand would rather be with someone else than in bed with her, that it's not his duty but his choice, that Ferdinand's feelings when it comes to Hubert are clear, and obvious, and of course at her expense. She groans, and shakes her head, and presses harder at the soon-to-be-bruises until all she can see behind her closed eyelids is Ferdinand's face when he clutches her so tightly it hurts, overcome.

Hubert's voice is barely audible through the cracked bedroom door, and though it would be smarter to go to sleep herself Bernadetta focuses on listening in, a welcome distraction from the inside of her own head.

"I've spent my entire life becoming the person Edelgard needed me to be, would need me to become. I don't know - whether or not I can remake myself so drastically is yet to be seen, and it will take some time."

"I - that is not something I expect of you," Ferdinand says. "I suspect I would find that version of Hubert quite boring."

"You wouldn't have cause to accuse him of sabotaging you, at least."

"As if that would stop me," Ferdinand says. "I certainly did not need real cause to accuse _you_."

"I understand why you - I am not accustomed to making mistakes. And if I make mistakes on your behalf that I never have before, of course it would look - I will do better."

"Perhaps when you're less tired. When was the last time you slept through the night?"

"I could ask you the same."

"Ah," Ferdinand says, "but the answer would prove nothing, for I have help."

"Of course," Hubert says. "Is this when you offer me a tea that tastes of nothing so much as dead leaves but is _sure_ to relax me?"

All goes quiet in the other room, but Ferdinand doesn't come back to bed right away and Bernadetta doesn't hear footsteps heading for the door or anything that would indicate they've gone to the kitchen for Ferdinand's preferred bedtime tea. The worry they'll someday kill each other is neither sincere nor immediate, though she doesn't doubt if Hubert wanted to kill Ferdinand in the other room he could do it quietly enough she wouldn't notice. 

The bedroom door swings open before the wilder parts of Bernadetta's imagination can really get going, and she squeaks a little and scrambles to make sure the blankets are pulled high enough to conceal her nakedness because it is Hubert, not Ferdinand, standing there. Or, no, Ferdinand is there, behind Hubert, half-hidden in the shadows.

"Ferdinand," Hubert says, his eyes fixed on Bernadetta and every line of his body broadcasting some shaky, impossible mix of unease and - eagerness? Want? But surely Ferdinand isn't suggesting - isn't offering - Bernadetta's mouth has gone dry.

"You have done so much for me," Ferdinand says. "For us. We could help you relax, if you'd like."

Bernadetta manages to tear her eyes from Hubert's anxious face to look at Ferdinand; his eyebrow is quirked just a little, in question, and his eyes are soft, no demands or accusations hiding there. Just an understanding of moments they have seen and haven't mentioned, of things they've wondered and wanted by themselves but of course, of course, together.

"Hubert," she says, and she sits up - clutching the sheets close, so as not to overwhelm him, to keep the pressure as low as she can - and holds out a hand. "Will you at least stay here, so we know you aren't working all night?"

Hubert takes a step into the room, and another, and another, slow and hesitant; he stops partway between the bed and the door, looking almost...lost, as if there's a maze in the middle of the room only he can see. An anxiety so familiar it's almost comforting begins to build steady and inevitable in the back of Bernadetta's mind - if Hubert, of all people, is this unsure, if he doesn't know what to do, if the path isn't clear to him then can it possibly be a reasonable path? The right thing? Should they - 

The click of the bedroom door closing echoes much louder than it should in the quiet room, breaks the rhythm of Bernadetta's spiral. and when Hubert turns to look at Ferdinand it's so much easier to focus on the way he holds himself, like his body is far too small to contain what she and Ferdinand are offering to satisfy, than her own worries. How could taking care of him be the wrong thing when he's done so much taking care of her?

"You can go," Ferdinand says, closing the distance between the two of them, "and in the morning we can laugh about how sleep-addled I was, to read you so wrong."

"But you aren't wrong," Hubert says.

Ferdinand smiles like the sun coming out and takes Hubert's face in his hands; even from a distance Bernadetta can see the care he's taking, the tenderness.

"I would like to hear you say that more often," he says, and lets Hubert begin to laugh in response before kissing him.

Bernadetta gasps, as if she's the one being kissed, and that's not entirely - she can feel it, almost, the phantom of Ferdinand's lips on hers, the ghost of his breath and tickle of his hair. He was gentle with her, the first time, the same way he is with Hubert now, held her face and tilted her towards him just like this, and she knows exactly how it must feel for Hubert, how hard to catch his breath, how overwhelming Ferdinand is even - especially - when he's trying not to be.

"Then you should be right more often," Hubert says, when Ferdinand gives him a moment, like there wasn't an interruption, and then it's his turn to kiss the laugh from Ferdinand's lips and all traces of carefulness are gone. There is a flash of teeth, Bernadetta can't tell whose, and tongue, and Ferdinand yanks at Hubert's shirt and sends buttons scattering. 

Bernadetta is so distracted by the whole display she barely manages to roll out of the way when Ferdinand backs Hubert to the bed and pushes him down, and just like that it's no longer a show but something she's a part of. Hubert is staring at her, flush spreading from his cheeks down to his chest, and it takes a moment for her to realize she dropped the blanket when she moved and she's naked before him.

"Goddess," he says, eyes sweeping over her, and Bernadetta doesn't know if it's okay to tease him about saying that when she knows how he feels about the _actual_ goddess so she just kisses him instead.

It's nothing at all like kissing Ferdinand, whose lips are fuller and softer than her own, who is constantly at war with himself, letting his passion get the better of him then reigning it in because he tries so hard to be careful with her. Ferdinand is all eagerness, a fire that needs to be constantly banked or allowed to run wild over her. Hubert makes a soft, rough noise in the back of his throat when their lips meet, but is otherwise still at first, waiting for Bernadetta to give him his cues. Because Hubert never acts without knowing what's expected of him and how best to turn the situation to his benefit, even here, even now.

But finally Hubert moves against her, with her, coaxes her lips apart and deepens the kiss, rests a tentative hand on her waist before strengthening his resolve and his grip and pulling her to straddle his lap. It's not so much a strain for her thighs as Ferdinand's, but she should really, really stop comparing them before she slips and speaks her thoughts aloud. Another time, she can imagine, that would lead to something thrilling, playing them against each other until their competition ends with her shaking and gasping in the sheets, but not tonight, not when everything is so new. Not when Hubert needs them to ease his tension. Bernadetta teases her tongue against his lips, just enough to issue an invitation, and Hubert eagerly accepts.

Bernadetta slips her hands into his hair - cobweb-fine, a little coarse, greasy and unwashed - and holds on for dear life, her head spinning. She's never kissed anyone but Ferdinand, never touched anyone remotely like this except for him, and part of her is screaming about how wrong this should feel, how horribly she's behaving, how a lady would never - but everything feels so good, so right, it's not quite so hard to drown out. Maybe no one should want a lady who behaves like this, but Ferdinand does, and so does Hubert; she can feel the evidence bulging in his trousers.

"What a sight," Ferdinand says, from so close to the bed it startles her a little; she didn't even realize he'd moved. The bed shifts behind her, and Ferdinand drags his fingertips down the curve of her spine, raising goosebumps in his wake; when he reaches her cunt he makes a soft tsking sound. "Darling, you're making a mess of him."

Hubert shudders beneath her so violently she nearly bites him, and she breaks their kiss to pull back and look at him, wrecked entirely, eyes big and dark, cheeks pink, lips red and sensitive, breathing harder than she's ever seen him outside a battlefield. Ferdinand slips his fingers between her legs before she can say anything, and she's so sensitive all she can do is squeak. That makes Hubert shiver, too.

"I - " Bernadetta says, but she has no idea what to say next, hasn't ever been any good at the _talking_ the way Ferdinand is. "You - "

"Lift up a little for me, Bernie," Ferdinand says, with a light tap to the back of her thigh, saves her from having to finish her sentence. "Hubert's a little overdressed."

Bernadetta does as he asks, and buries her face in Hubert's neck when the act of unbuttoning Hubert's trousers has Ferdinand's fingers brushing against her oversensitive cunt again and again. And then it isn't Ferdinand's fingers but Hubert's cock, hot and hard, the length of him pressed against her and oh it would be so easy to move, just a little bit, to shift her hips and take him inside and know how he feels, how it feels to fuck someone other than Ferdinand, to fuck _Hubert_.

"Goddess, the two of you," Ferdinand says, his voice nearly as low and rough as it gets when she's pleasuring him with her hands or mouth. "Do you want to fuck her, Hubert?"

"I - " Hubert says, and nothing else, and he's shaking, a little, just so Bernadetta can feel it everywhere they're pressed together. She manages to lift her head and look at him again, eyes darting back and forth between her and Ferdinand, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out, and oh, she's never seen this on Hubert before but she knows this feeling well. 

"Slow down, my love," she says, and feels the warmth of Ferdinand recede as he moves back a little, gets off the bed. He doesn't always speak the instinctive language of _too much_ but he's so sweet, takes direction so beautifully. 

"We can stop whenever you want to," Bernadetta says, and climbs off his lap, gives him a little space. Hubert reaches for her arm and holds tight, a sudden panic in his eyes. "But I'm not going anywhere."

"Anything you want, Hubert," Ferdinand says, and comes around to stand at his shoulder. He coaxes Hubert to sit up, and for once Hubert just does as Ferdinand asks, goes where he's put. Ferdinand slips onto the bed behind him, cages Hubert's slim frame between his strong thighs, and wraps his arms around Hubert until Hubert leans back and relaxes against him. "I have you."

"What do you want?" Bernadetta asks, quieter than she means to because it's so hard to make herself actually speak. They look so good like this, together, he only man she's ever had and the only other one she's ever wanted fitting together like puzzle pieces, perfectly matched seams, like they were made just for this. 

"I - " Hubert says, closes his eyes, takes a moment to collect himself. "Your mouth, if - if that would please you."

"Sometimes I think there is nothing that pleases her more," Ferdinand says, a loud whisper as if he's sharing a secret, as if he isn't winking at her while he says it. Bernadetta can feel the way her skin heats, can feel how fast and far her blush spreads, but he's not wrong, and it's easy enough to resist the urge to hide and to crawl between Hubert's legs instead.

"I've never," he says, like it's a full sentence, a complete thought, and Bernadetta smiles up at him.

"I’ll be gentle," she says. “I learned from the best.”

Ferdinand kisses Hubert's shoulder and his eyes flutter shut; the way he reacts to the smallest touch, the slightest affection, makes Bernadetta's heart feel as if it's clamped in a vise in her chest. She _knows_ how he feels, how Ferdinand makes it feel, but more than that she's never seen Hubert this vulnerable before. 

"Just relax," Ferdinand says, running his fingers up and down Hubert's arms. "We will take good care of you."

Bernadetta kisses one skinny thigh, then the other, moving slowly like she might with a skittish animal. Hubert is the opposite of her Ferdinand in so many ways but no less attractive for it, all lean muscle and pale skin marred here and there with scars from spells and arrows. His cock is narrow, curved almost sharply, and the slick already beading at the tip is more bitter than she's used to but it makes her mouth water anyway.

"That's it," Ferdinand says, and kisses just beneath Hubert's ear. It hurts her neck a little to keep watching them as she takes Hubert's slim cock in deeper, but she can't quite tear her eyes away from Ferdinand's tenderness, Hubert's desperation. He groans like it's being torn from his chest when she swirls her tongue around the head, and his hips jerk when she dips his tongue into the slit to spread his taste even more thickly over her tongue. 

Pretty as the two of them are Bernadetta finally lets herself close her eyes, lose herself in the pleasure of adoring Hubert the way he deserves, the way she's wanted to probably longer than she'd like to admit. He's so rarely caught off guard, so rarely at a loss, but he can barely manage her name between deep, ragged groans and overwhelmed gasps. Two sets of fingers, Ferdinand's tangled with Hubert's, grab her hair, hold on tight, and she moans for them, encouraging.

"She likes that," Ferdinand says, and it's not as if Bernadetta doesn't know how well he knows what she needs by now but to hear him say it, to have him instructing Hubert, sparks down her spine like a rogue thoron blast to pool hot and liquid between her legs. "Tell her how good she is."

"Bernadetta," he says, low and rough, managing every syllable for the first time since she took him in her mouth, "you're - you are, you are, please."

Bernadetta's clit is still so sensitive it almost hurts to touch, but she teases her fingers around her folds anyway, relishing in the mess of Ferdinand's come while she pleasures Hubert. Not now, not tonight but maybe - oh, she could take them both, let them both fill her, dirty her, one right after the other until she's absolutely senseless with it.

"Look, Hubert," Ferdinand says. "Look how much she loves it."

Bernadetta moans again, letting it vibrate around the solid length of Hubert's cock, and oh, he spills in her mouth with the sweetest cry, grip tightening in her hair and hips bucking like he can't control them. Hubert, _Hubert_ , out of control, and all because of her. And Ferdinand, of course, but still.

"That's it," Ferdinand says, soothing, and she can hear more kisses being pressed to Hubert's sweaty skin. Ferdinand keeps murmuring and kissing as Bernadetta swallows the last of Hubert's spend, licks him clean, and sits up to look at them again, finally, Hubert pink in the cheeks and all down his chest, Ferdinand glowing as if he's the one who just came.

"Gorgeous," he says; Bernadetta isn't sure who he's talking to but he draws her in for a kiss, sweeps his tongue into her mouth to taste Hubert's release for himself. His hands tangle in her hair to hold her close, and Hubert's come to rest on her hips, and how could she ever think she had what she needed when she didn't have this, exactly this, the two of them?

Ferdinand stops kissing her, eventually, and maneuvers them until Hubert is lying on his side between them and Bernadetta can curl up against him, press her forehead to his chest, and fall asleep listening to the rapidfire thrum of his heartbeat as it settles into a calmer, gentler rhythm.

-

When Bernadetta wakes, the bed is empty. It's not surprising - she's working nearly as hard as Hubert and Ferdinand, these days, but her tasks are all things she can do on her own while the other two must rise early for meetings and to get correspondence out - but it's disappointing. The night before was hardly how she envisioned this happening, when she dared envision it at all, but for what it was it was nearly perfect and she had perhaps hoped they could hide in that bubble of perfection just a little longer. But reality being what it is, they must take what they can where they can, be that taking Hubert to bed on a late-night whim rather than romancing him or the few hours they got to sleep curled up together rather than days and days to lie about and savor it.

Still, Bernadetta takes her time going about her morning, as if moving too fast will spoil the memory entirely. She is sore from Ferdinand's attentions so she soothes the aches in a hot bath, and her throat is just a touch rough from Hubert so she savors a slow cup of tea before her breakfast. Soon enough, though, there's nothing even she can do to put off the intrusion of the war.

The sun is high in the sky and Bernadetta's hand is beginning to cramp when Ferdinand interrupts her; it's rare for him to come to the little office she's taken for herself, he's so busy, but she'll take any excuse for a break from writing condolence letters to soldiers’ families.

"Darling," he says, "could you find some time to talk to Hubert today?"

"Of course," she says. "Is everything alright?"

Ferdinand sighs and sits across from her desk, running an anxious hand through his hair. "Well, I do not know, exactly. He was gone when I woke up, and I have not seen him all day. He has missed two appointments with me and quite a few with others."

"Oh dear," Bernadetta says. "I - do you think we - oh, we shouldn't have - "

"Bernie," Ferdinand says, just firmly enough to snap her out of it before she can spiral too far. 

"Sorry, I - of course I'll talk to him. Do you want to come with me?"

"I think it would be best if it were just you, for now. He and I - you are easier for him, I think. And if he _is_ upset, I was the one who pushed him, so perhaps I should stay away."

"I'm sure that's not it." Ferdinand looks tired, of course he does, but a different kind of tired than usual. Bernadetta comes around the desk, wraps her arms around him from behind and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. "We know he has no problem telling you no."

She kisses him again, and waits for his soft hum of response before heading down the hall to Hubert's office.

It's empty, as it often is in the middle of a busy day, but the longer she looks the emptier it seems. His breakfast tray is covered on the side table, a carafe of coffee next to it rather than sitting on his desk. His papers are neatly sorted into the piles he makes before he finishes work in the wee hours of the morning, nothing sitting out of place because he left it in a hurry or wants to get to it when he returns. 

Bernadetta checks the breakfast tray - untouched, under the cover - and the carafe - full to the brim, and ice cold - and sighs. She is so, so good at expecting the worst, and if Hubert couldn't even bring himself to come to his office today - maybe Ferdinand's right. They pushed too hard, pushed for something Hubert didn't really want, and he didn't think he could refuse his Emperor, or he thought he might hurt Bernadetta's feelings when he's always so careful - or. _Or_ , maybe they got through to him and he's been sleeping all day, content in the knowledge that she and Ferdinand want that for him.

Or not.

Hubert's suite is similarly empty, similarly untouched. Another full carafe of coffee gone cold, the fireplace readied for a fresh fire to be lit, his bed neatly made. His desk here is as tidy as the one in his office, neatly arranged at the end of a workday and unmolested by the start of a new one. Though Bernadetta feels a little guilty, like snooping, her anxiety demands she check his armoire; his clothes are still hung up, though she doesn't know his wardrobe well enough to swear there isn't one or two missing.

Anxiety is also what guides Bernadetta's feet next, through the halls, down flights of stairs, out of the palace to the courtyard and beyond, all the way to the stables. She keeps her breathing steady on the way there, in and out with the rhythm of her footsteps; the thing he wants most in the world is to carry out Edelgard's vision, and leaving would compromise that. It will just make her feel better to rule out the possibility entirely.

The problem with that strategy is after a lifetime of constant anxiety, Bernadetta's brain has gotten very, very good at considering the worst possible outcome with a strong emphasis on the _possible_ part. It's good at discarding everything that conflicts too much with reality, everything she might be able to talk herself down from worrying about. And so while ruling out the worst is a fine strategy most of the time, there's always a possibility the worst is exactly what's happened.

Bear and Duchess are resting happily in their stalls, but there is a conspicuous absence. Hemlock, the fine black horse that carried Hubert through the war, is gone.

-

The Hresvelgs are all interred in a massive crypt beneath the palace, because of course they are. It's a ghastly place, dark and musty, and though Bernadetta isn't sure she believes in ghosts she's certain if anywhere is haunted it's this miserable stone basement. There's no good reason to be down here, but Bernadetta hasn't slept well for quite a few days and she's lost her ability to differentiate between good reasons and bad.

Edelgard hasn't been formally put to rest yet; her body lies magically preserved beneath a sheet on the large stone slab used for embalming. Hubert wants to hold a state funeral for her, of course, and he had some vague plans about going through her personal effects to ensure she hadn't harbored some wish to be buried somewhere else, free of the family that so often failed her. So here she lies, waiting; Bernadetta and Ferdinand will be responsible for interpreting her final wishes now, with Hubert gone.

The thought had crept into the back of Bernadetta's mind in the space between the late hours of the night and early hours in the morning, when all the worst thoughts usually sneak in. If there's one thing she knows about Hubert, it's that he wouldn't leave Edelgard. So if Edelgard is still here - and, really, where would she go - Hubert must be. Hemlock's absence could be a distraction, so she and Ferdinand don't know where to look for him, and he could be hiding down here, figuring out what to do next.

Now that she's down here she feels like an idiot. Edelgard's body is here but Edelgard herself is gone; there's no reason for Hubert to tether himself to a corpse. Certainly no reason compelling enough to turn him into the villain of a cheap novel, skulking about in the dark living off rats. His goal was to serve Edelgard, and then to see her vision through; either he believes Ferdinand and Bernadetta will do that, and he is free to go start a new life, or they won't, and he's wasting his time.

Bernadetta is empty, and exhausted, and she doesn't know how to make herself let go of something she'd only just realized was hers to hold on to. She is standing over the body of someone who changed her life for the better, and crying for the loss of another, and there are footsteps echoing down the stone stairs and she can't deal with anything else right now so she hides.

But of course, no one knows her habits as well as the person looking for her, and it isn't long at all before he finds her in the musty alcove she's crammed herself into.

"There you are," he says. "I was a little worried when I went looking and could not find you."

"Here I am," she says. “So you can get back to work, Emperor.”

"Ah," Ferdinand says. "You are mad at me."

"No," Bernadetta says, and wipes her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm angry at him, but he isn't here to snap at."

Ferdinand sits down beside her, folding himself up rather gracefully to fit in a space that only barely has room for him. She's reminded, a little absurdly given the time and place, of the way he pouted when the professor chose Dorothea for the White Heron Cup, the way he swayed around the monastery in the month afterwards, as if by being graceful enough often enough he could change anyone's mind. 

(She was so sure everyone was going to laugh when he asked her to dance at the ball she spent half a song stepping on his toes and then fled; it was Hubert who came after her to walk her back to her room. He didn't lecture her about trying to go back, to be better, and he didn't congratulate her for staying as long as she did, just walked in silence until they reached her door and he told her Ferdinand would have come but he was afraid of offending her further.

At some point Ferdinand stopped doing that, stopped using - needing - Hubert to correct his mistakes in trying to talk to her. At some point Bernadetta stopped punishing him for trying too hard. It doesn't seem fair, then, that they're sitting here now, needing him again.)

"I have been doing some thinking," Ferdinand says. "We will need to decide whether to continue this war, or end it. And if we continue, we must hope Hubert has left enough information behind for us to figure out what winning will even look like. And once we have recalled our troops, or secured a victory, I am going to determine a successor and abdicate the throne."

He says it so calmly, so casually, it takes Bernadetta a moment to realize exactly what it is he's said. Because the rest of it is just the truth of what comes next, that Those Who Slither In The Dark are Hubert's goal and it's Hubert's war and without him it falls to her and Ferdinand to decide. But the rest - oh.

"Why would - but you've - this is what you want, what you've wanted. Since we were young, you've - "

"Maybe," Ferdinand says, and laughs just a little, a hard, bitter chuckle that sounds like it must have hurt his throat on the way out. "Perhaps it was always so shallow, so simple, as wanting to beat Edelgard, and I never truly thought it through."

Ferdinand turns to look at her; he is a man of a great many emotions, and he wears them all so plainly on his face, but she's never seen him quite like this before. There's always a fire to him, a passion, but at the moment he looks like it's been all but extinguished, leaving him nothing but small, and tired, and sad. It's a tight space, with the two of them, and there isn't a lot of room to move, but Bernadetta manages to scramble into his lap, to kneel over him and throw her arms around his neck. He rewards her with a smile, if only a very small one.

"What I wanted then does not matter so much as what I want now," he says, his hands coming to rest on her waist. "And I do not want to do this if it is without you."

Bernadetta tips her forehead against his and takes a second just to breathe, in and out as steady as she can, because otherwise she's going to laugh, wild and hysterical with the rush she always gets when he says stupid things like that, or cry all over his stupid face. 

"We can move to Varley," he says, quiet. "Throw out all the furniture, redecorate until there's no sign your father ever existed. And I will have to make no decisions more complicated than which horses to breed, and you can spend all your time writing or painting or making whatever your heart desires, every beautiful thing you can think of."

"I don't want that," Bernadetta says, barely more than a whisper.

"No?"

"Not yet, anyway." She sits up so she can look him in the eye, watch the sparks dance until one catches and the furnace that fuels his boundless energy roars to life again. "Not until I've seen what Fódlan looks like in the age of Emperor von Aegir."

Ferdinand laughs, then, a real one, loud and delighted and tinged with relief. Bernadetta bites her tongue to keep from apologizing for making him think he would have to give all this up, but only for a second before he's hugging her so tightly there's no air left to speak anyway. And then he kisses her, laughing into her mouth until he can't anymore, kisses her until she is breathless and her head is spinning with him before he pulls away.

"In that case, we should go upstairs," he says, fire dancing in his eyes. "There is so much work to do."

-

Sleep continues to hover somewhere just out of reach for Bernadetta. At least Ferdinand no longer seems to have the same problem; his sleep is fitful and based on the dark shadows under his eyes all the time not entirely restful, but it's sleep all the same. She isn't exactly jealous, given how hard he works to earn that meager rest. 

Still, it would be nice to be able to shut down for more than a few hours a night, at most, to stop worrying about what comes next or wondering where Hubert is while she bites her fingernails to ragged nubs.

There is a little work to see to, when she finally gives up and slips out of Ferdinand's warm embrace. Bernadetta isn't as skilled as Hubert with ciphers, not yet, but she's improving with practice and he didn't change the most current one before he left. Hardly any messages come through, so he must have planned his disappearance far enough in advance to let his contacts know, and what does come is either innocuous ( _all clear, will continue observing_ ), indecipherable ( _move on T at S go, 50 at GF at ready_ ), or both ( _checked hive 4-2; bee & honey secure_). But decoding them feels like doing something, and it's not writing condolence letters or reviewing tax reports or troop movements, so she'll take it. Fleche and Randolph are both due to report in the next day or two, and maybe they'll give her something she can act on. Something concrete she can do and tell herself they'll be okay without Hubert, she can do everything Hubert did.

In easier times, Bernadetta would have said there was nothing more inviting than Ferdinand asleep in a warm bed, his warmth spreading through the sheets, strong arms ready to wrap around her even if he's lost in dreams and doesn't really know she's there. Lately, though, the sight fills her with a cold kind of dread, the promise of another several hours of lying awake with only her awful thoughts, of a morning where neither of them know what to say to each other in their exhaustion. She's made her choice and it's the right one, she's sure of it, but everything is just so _difficult_ right now. 

Bernadetta's footsteps echo in the hallway, the only sounds in the dark palace. She's had to practice making noise when she walks, something she'd managed to stop doing almost entirely after so much combat training, because the first time she took one of these late night walks she startled every guard she came across, and the constant jumping, yelping, and apologizing was as frustrating the fifth or sixth time as the first. So she walks with heavy steps out of the residential wing, through the kitchens, out into the gardens, pulling Ferdinand’s coat more tightly around her as the chill seeps through her nightdress.

It's a little bit of a silly routine, coming out here in the dark when she can barely see anything, but most of the routines that keep her calm are silly so it doesn't matter much. She lights a few lanterns with her torch, finds a bench, and looks out at the little she can see in the warm firelight, thinking about what everything's going to look like a few years from now, if she ever finds the time.

Or, that's what she does most nights. Tonight she's barely left the palace, hasn't even made it to the first lantern, when a wyvern flies overhead, another one not far behind it. The first is huge, and white, and flying so low the rider must intend to land. An attack? She's not sure what else it would be, two lone riders this late at night; someone might have caught wind of Hubert’s absence and believes they’re vulnerable now. There are things she's supposed to do, if the palace is breached, but instead of any of those she just runs in the direction they were flying and reaches the courtyard as Claude von Riegan is dismounting.

"I - what?" Bernadetta says, shakes her head, stands up a little straighter. Authority, bravery; how would Hubert handle this? Edelgard? "State your business, right now."

"Hello to you, too," he says, and turns away from his wyvern. He's holding - oh, goddess, he's holding Hubert's body, limp and deathly pale. "He's not dead."

"I - he - " Bernadetta is struck with the stupidest urge to rush over and take Hubert herself. Before she can do anything, or stop stammering, the second wyvern lands, Linhardt clutching Petra with his eyes shut tight.

"Bernie!" she says, and waves, smiling brightly like any of this makes sense, like anything is normal. "I am having to go, but it will be okay."

She's gone again as soon as Linhardt has both feet on the stone, disappearing into the night sky while Bernadetta's head is still reeling. 

"I need a bed, closer than the residential wing, and space to work," Linhardt says, "and then you can panic."

He's smiling, too, just a little one, and he rests his hand on her shoulder before she can snap at him. Because, of course, he knows she's going to panic, he isn't just being mean. Bernadetta nods and takes off into the palace, moving as quickly as she can.

"There's an infirmary," she says over her shoulder. "Edelgard - when the war - in case the fighting came to Enbarr. Turning it back into a ballroom hasn't really been our highest priority. It isn’t - oh, I don’t know if it’s been cleaned recently, or if it’s - most of the palace staff is home, because of the war, so we aren’t - it might be dusty."

It's pretty much the last thing she wants to be talking about, the logistics of the palace or all the work they've had to do or all the work that's still to come, when she could be asking what happened, where they've been, where they came from, why is Hubert - what _happened_ , when there's so much she doesn't know, but she can't quite seem to stop rambling about the stupid infirmary to ask any real questions. Anyone who tries to blame her for anxious babbling is going to get an arrow in the throat, though.

Bernadetta leads them to the infirmary, a little dusty but at least the beds are all made up, and Claude hurries to drop Hubert onto the nearest one. Not especially gently, but scolding him doesn't exactly seem fair right this second. Linhardt squeezes her shoulder and pushes past her, the focused, impossibly competent healer she remembers from too many battlefields in place of her sleepy friend. Good.

"I need to go wake - "

"I am awake," Ferdinand says, though the words are fuzzy enough around the edges that might not be entirely true. Bernadetta so rarely sees him around other people, and she is struck for a moment by how _regal_ he looks, even in his dressing gown and breeches, hair falling from the loose braid Bernadetta had done for him earlier that evening to frame his face. "What is going on?"

"Thales is dead," Claude says. "It's over. Or mostly over, I guess, Petra's delivering the news to the front now."

"Thank the goddess," Ferdinand says, and turns his attention to the still form on the cot, Linhardt bustling around with a surprising amount energy and focus. "Is he - "

"Not yet," Bernadetta says.

"Not at all, if everyone stops distracting me," Linhardt says.

Ferdinand opens his mouth, closes it again, and swallows hard, like he always does when he wants to argue but knows better. He nods. "Of course. I - we do not have anything ready, but I will have a suite prepared at once for you, Claude, if you will follow me."

Ferdinand and Claude leave the room, the small cluster of guards who'd gathered following behind. Bernadetta looks at Hubert, so much more pale than she would have guessed a living person could be, and at the retreating backs of the people following Linhardt's directions, and at Hubert again until his chest rises with a shallow breath, and at Linhardt to find him looking at her.

"You know you don't count," he says, and gently shifts Hubert so he's off-center on the bed. "You can lie here with him, if you'll stay still." 

"I - " Bernadetta starts, but she doesn't finish. She could apologize for making him feel like he has to accommodate her, but she's not sorry and Linhardt doesn't do anything Linhardt doesn't want to do. Ask if he's sure a dozen or so times, but she's almost, almost over assuming anything she wants being offered to her is some kind of trick. Decline to climb into bed with someone who isn't Ferdinand, except she has no reason to be afraid of anything Linhardt might think of her because he's never, ever cared. So she shuts up and does what she wants, carefully settles on the cot with her head on Hubert's shoulder.

It's less scary like this, knowing Linhardt thinks he's strong enough to withstand her presence, being able to see him, feel him, draw his pained, shallow breaths, and with all the anxiety of the past several days, of the past several minutes, leeching out of her, there's nothing left to keep Bernadetta going and she drifts off to a dead, dreamless sleep.

-

When Bernadetta wakes, the first thing she notices is that her mouth feels as if it's been stuffed with cotton, the second is that her head is pounding, and the third is that she seems to be resting on a regular pillow, not Hubert's shoulder. Her eyes fly open and she sits up all at once, patting the bed around her in a frantic bid to make sure Hubert's there, that nothing terrible happened in the night.

"He's okay," says a voice she barely recognizes; Claude is sitting in a chair that's been pulled up to the foot of the bed. He's got his feet up on the next bed over, and he's lazily flipping through what looks like a stack of Hubert's reports. "He woke up a few hours ago, then he and von Aegir fought for a while about whether to wake you up, then Linhardt made them leave before they actually did. You've been out most of the day."

"I haven't been sleeping well," she says, as if that matters to him. Bernadetta doesn't know Claude well; the classes did so little together she was never forced to spend time with him, and he has the sort of personality that used to send her scurrying into dark corners to hide. But he has a nice smile, and he brought Hubert back to her, and honestly she hasn't been awake long enough to get _too_ anxious.

"I bet."

"Can I - I thought you were in Almyra?" Goddess, Hubert wouldn't have gone that far to get away from her and Ferdinand, would he? And surely there would have been better options for treatment than to fly him all the way back. Oh, she knows so _little_ , it’s infuriating.

"I was, until Hubert asked for help with your pest problem. Ended up in Hyrm."

"What's in Hyrm?"

"Nothing, now," he says, and winks. Bernadetta pulls Ferdinand’s coat a little more tightly around her shoulders, suddenly aware of how thin her nightdress is. "It _was_ Those Who Slither In The Dark's headquarters. Whole secret stronghold in the mountains. Pretty impressive, though your fellow Adrestians didn't really seem to like me saying that. It's a compliment, honestly, if I thought they were a bunch of idiots I wouldn't be impressed by a secret stronghold, now, would I?"

"Probably not," Bernadetta says. 

"Anyway, they were trying to resurrect Nemesis, but we crashed their little party in time to stop it. Hubert got a face full of something nasty for his trouble, black magic like I'd never seen, but he's pretty much the only one of ours who went down, which I kind of think was, well..." Claude shuffles the pages he was reading back into the larger stack and tosses it her way; there's an envelope clipped to the first page with her name in tidy script. "I was supposed to give you this if he didn't make it, so I don't think he was all that surprised to wind up their main target. Don't worry, I didn't read any of the personal stuff."

Claude stands up and stretches, turns to head for the door; Bernadetta frowns at the stack of papers. "What else is there?"

"You might want to let him know to switch out his spies in Almyra," Claude says, with another wink. "And his next ten or so ciphers."

"Spies?" Bernadetta asks, but Claude's already gone. She sighs and starts going through the papers, setting the envelope aside for now. Does she want to know what Hubert wanted to say to her in the event of his death? Would it be unfair to read it now that he's fine, he's alive, and he'll have to face her knowing she knows? 

In the months since coming to Enbarr, Bernadetta has received probably hundreds of dossiers from Hubert, meticulously prepared with all the information she needs to do what he needs her to without needing to interrupt him with questions. And this is the same thing on a much, much larger scale; everything she would need to take over as spymaster. Everyone in all of his networks, each person's role, skills, the places they cannot be sent and the tasks they excel at, their pay and any relevant details (more than one is working off a debt or trading in favors rather than gold; a woman who will presumably not be in Almyra's capitol much longer has two young children and shouldn't be sent into war zones). Pages of ciphers everyone in the field is prepared to use, instructions for distributing new ones, instructions for contacting field agents, lists of informants and people who owe favors who aren't formally part of his network. Instructions for finding further instructions hidden in the palace and how to decode them so they don't fall into the wrong hands between Hubert's death and Claude's delivery to her.

Everything she would need to do Hubert's job, and no indication he expects her to find someone else to do it. Unless that’s what’s in the envelope?

_Dearest Bernadetta,_

_I expect you will take this to Ferdinand and ask him not to make you my replacement; I expect he will listen. It does not take an especially keen intuition to see how he yearns to make you happy and comfortable, how he hates to see your distress. So I ask you here, and you may consider it a dying wish, not to bring this to him just yet. You get upset when I push you, but you always rise to the occasion, and I have no reason to believe this will be different. I expect the reign of Emperor von Aegir will be significantly less bloody than the reigns of his predecessors, and you are the right person to aid him in that with what tools I can leave you._

_Edelgard used to tell me I was not so difficult to read as I might hope when it came to matters more personal than professional; if that is truly the case what I have to say to you might come as no surprise. It may only be that assumption that allows me to tell you at all that I am, for better or worse, quite deeply in love with you, rather than taking my feelings to my grave. In another life I would tell you daily how much I love you, and perhaps it would please you to hear it as much as it would me to say it. In this life I fear it would have done more harm than good to say it any sooner, for when I look at you and Ferdinand I am as pleased you have found the love you deserve as I am disappointed it was not with me._

_There are not many people who will remember me fondly, Bernadetta, but I hope you will, and I hope in my memory you will be brave, and live the life you desire._

_Yours, always,_

_Hubert_

-

Bernadetta hadn't really thought about what to do when Hubert came back, because it hadn't crossed her mind he might. Her talent is for envisioning the worst possible outcome; she's useless at predicting anything good. And she's not exactly thinking about what to do now, her head mostly just buzzing. She gets overwhelmed easily, she knows, less now than she used to after years of learning to cope with the chaos of a battlefield, but this might be a little much for anyone. So instead of looking for Hubert while she's still reeling, Bernadetta goes right for Ferdinand's office; he’s always been good at steadying her, at helping her sort through the useless noise her brain makes to find what’s real. He's not there, but there's an envelope on his desk identical to the one Claude gave her, and a similar letter next to it.

Of course. She wasn’t the only person Hubert was looking at with all his desperate, clawing need so clear in his eyes that night.

When Bernadetta makes it to their rooms, the first thing she sees is Ferdinand looking more rested and relaxed than she's seen him in weeks, his hair pulled into a low ponytail and not just loose around his face to be toyed with when he gets agitated. He's holding a report, but instead of reading it he's looking towards his lap, faint smile on his face. And in his lap is Hubert, eyes closed, still more pale and gaunt than she's ever seen him but alive, and here, and okay.

"Ah, Bernie. I was beginning to think you would sleep through the night," Ferdinand says. "I hope the cot was comfortable, at least."

"It was," she says; Ferdinand's looking at her now, same soft smile on her face, and slowly, slowly, the riot in Bernadetta's head quiets into something soft, and small, and obvious, so painfully obvious. "Did you two talk?"

"I made damn sure he knows what a fool he was," Ferdinand says, and holds a hand out to her. Bernadetta goes to him and as soon as she's in reach he pulls her in close, arm around her waist, and tilts up for a soft kiss. "I am sure he looks forward to hearing it from you, as well."

"And did you - did he - are we - "

"Our bed was most comfortable when it held three, yes, my love?"

"Yeah," Bernadetta says; it comes out as a whisper.

"Then I think we will, all of us, be sleeping quite comfortably from now on."

And all Bernadetta can do is kiss him again, smiling so widely it's clumsy, and awkward, and perfect, and reach down to tangle her fingers with his to comb through Hubert’s hair together, careful not to disturb the sleep he so badly needs.


End file.
